


eden at our mercy

by isoldewas



Category: GLOW (TV 2017)
Genre: F/F, VegasRuth is a character in itself, a s03 sing along, fleabag ruined airports for me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-14
Updated: 2019-09-14
Packaged: 2020-10-18 14:49:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20640959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/isoldewas/pseuds/isoldewas
Summary: Nine more months in Vegas. Debbie stays, Debbie goes.





	eden at our mercy

**Author's Note:**

> a friend told me she doesn't get debbie. up-top

Her sadness is an art. Strained across her tired face, it falls flat as soon as everybody’s out of the room.

Well, _except._ Debbie doesn’t spare Ruth.

Ruth sees the disappointment. So much goddamn disappointment when after a week the hotel, the buffet, the show, the rooms, the girls and paychecks and leotards become one loop. Day in, day out. Ruth fills out performance reviews and Debbie counts the days until it’s over.

Until she can be free again.

For Ruth, it’s the freest she’s ever been. A loop, to her, is a steady job and all the friendship, gossip and free food. The show that’s been running on autopilot for weeks now, well, Ruth takes pride in that. In how well they navigate around tension, swollen ankles, bruises and hangovers. 

But then Debbie’s still not satisfied.

Ruth sees the flash on vengeance at every one of Bash’s missteps. She winces at the sharp pain across Debbie’s face at the sight of a passing child. Ruth hears the satisfied breath she as Liberty Belle lets out when she hits for real, too hard, with formidable precision. 

Every blow lands. Every punch in the ring, in costume, and then out of it, a snarky comment, sharp words, the cold state she leaves in her wake for Ruth to do with as she pleases.

Two months into making GLOW and Ruth got it: regret wasn’t the right answer. She can’t apologize enough, and it’s not like Debbie was waiting for magical words in just the right order.

It was another sort of game. Ruth was all in before she learnt the rules. She’s always been good at _yes, and._

When Debbie strikes now, Vegas Ruth soaks it all up.

She wakes up, words washing over her again and again, new and scorching and _Debbie._ The cold expanse of her skin, the cruel smirk, the sad eyes, the resentment she covers it all in.

Vegas Ruth is a creature of new habits. Basking in the desert sunlight, in Zoya’s glory, in confessions out of absolutely fucking nowhere. Despite the schedule and the loneliness, the gut-punching, overwhelming, terrifying sort, Vegas Ruth is happy. She’s bold and brave and in a long distance relationship. She wants to grab Debbie and snap her out of her sorrows. _You’ve got everything, and so much of it._

It’s not enough.

Bash can veto her decisions, Sam’s still taken into account even when he spends all his time on his serve technique. Ruth nods at that, her jaw clenched, her own voice strained.

Debbie doesn’t find it’s enough.

She hasn’t seen Randy in “fucking forever, Ruth.” It’s Wednesday when she says it. Her forever amounts to three days. It’s not enough, any of it, none, _Debbie—_ It’s barely anything, Ruth thinks as she pulls her fingers out of herself, shaking and on the edge. 

Over burgers, Debbie says people won’t go looking for anything after seeing what she looks like.

Ruth stops mid-bite. Her eyes fly to the edge of Debbie’s mouth. Her cheekbones, the hollow of her collarbones, blond curls and muscle, and a great ass, “big and juicy and sexy.”

Before saying yes, before saying no, Ruth thinks: you’d have to get to that. You’d have to go past the shape of her sorrow first. It’s there like a second skin. An extra layer of get-out, I-don’t need-you. You’ve-hurt-me.

You’d have to go past that and Debbie won’t let you past that.

Ruth’s mind wanders to the abundance of memories from before. How Debbie was easy and there and all alone and Ruth wanted in.

Movies and drunken singing and the joints Debbie lifted off of a guy in a bar, then walking down a block and sitting down on somebody’s porch. The easy look on Debbie, the sly smile shying away at too much gushing words. Ruth always had them there, the things ready to roll off her tongue. Praise and declarations and her own shortcomings. The pain and the injustice of her nonexistent career like a balm on Debbie’s wounds. _Look. Take my pain. Forget yours._

_Take me. Forget yourself._

Her swollen belly and an _oh_ Ruth let out before shutting her mouth.

That’s how Mark happened. Ruth reached out for Debbie and grabbed the first thing there. 

GLOW is running smoothly, too smoothly, and they latch on to the opportunity of changing it up. Ruth glances at Debbie, but Debbie’s nodding enthusiastically at the girls. 

She watches Debbie recite Zoya’s part in the ring. They sound hateful, her own words in Debbie’s voice.

Ruth’s leotard’s chafing Debbie’s thighs, and Ruth doesn’t quite fill out Debbie’s. It might not have been smart to go into it all unprepared. Debbie must have known the risk.

She shouts obscenities from the stage and Ruth stands up, the lights blinding her, a hero among the common folk. It’s another take on the character. Under the same name, she presents another version of America’s sweetheart. A parody of a parody. A joke within a joke.

For once it’s new. And Vegas Ruth loves new.

Before Debbie bounces off the corner of the ring, she can imagine the weight of Debbie’s hips in her arms. Almost like they’ve played each other before, like Ruth knows exactly what that feels like; like she’s used to imagining it.

And then, there is a moment where it looks like Zoya might win. Debbie’s playing her different, bold and still mean, but in a very Debbie way. 

The shattering “I’m your daddy now” is loud and literal. Performed for everybody’s pleasure but with Ruth in her arms, strong hands on her hips. Addressed to Liberty Belle, and, underneath layers and layers of makeup, clothes and character work, to Ruth.

Her breath catches.

Ruth wins the match, pining Debbie to the floor, the red of her costume blinding, the drops of sweat on her forehead flickering under the spotlight. It’s a nice change of pace, winning for once. The applause, the attitude, this new persona. A girl that’s better than anyone else, scripted to be enough.

It’s a heady feeling. 

So what if they stay a little longer?

“Nine more months!” Bash pops the champagne.

It takes a second to settle in. But after his you’re-in-or-you’re-our kind of pep talk, everyone’s immediately on board.

Debbie’s the only one who doesn’t recover. As the girls leave for the club or the buffet, they move quickly, excited, overwhelmed, trying to make sense of it as fast as possible.

In half an hour, even Melanie and Dawn are gone, which leaves Ruth alone there with Debbie, staring in the mirror, her face blank.

She is wearing a blue shirt and red pants now, but her Zoya make up is still on. Her hair is still crazy high, sprayed into a coherent shape.

Her eyes flicker to Ruth for a second.

Ruth’s picking up her stuff around the room: the shirt she let Stacy borrow, her lipstick she’d thought lost. She puts her stuff in a bag, unsure whether she should leave. Debbie’s not being mean, she doesn’t think. It’s more of a trust exercise. _See? This is me._

To which, of course, all Ruth wants to say is: _look. This is you. Wonderful hands and sharp words, beauty and cleverness and liberation._

She puts her bag on the couch and crosses the room to stand before Debbie.

Debbie stands up, rubbing at her left eye with the wet cloth. The makeup comes off in bright red smudges.

Ruth looks at her. She grows bold and takes Debbie’s hands in hers. The used cloth falls to the floor.

Debbie smells like sweat and perfume. Everything about her is heady, impossible to ignore. The loud colors, the glitter, the volume of her hair. How she looks like Ruth looks, how right now she looks exactly like Ruth.

She leans in, Debbie’s palms warm in her hands. Ruth leans in closer, closer, until it’s impossible to deny, until she herself decides that this here is already something and she might as well go for it.

It’s not as difficult as she would’ve thought.

It’s an _I like you_ that cuts open. Her mouth, Debbie’s mouth. The edge of her teeth, lips, teeth biting down on her lip, which brings Ruth back, and she recoils.

Debbie’s face, then. A look of confusion that she tries desperately to school into an of-course-you-did. She even laughs, quick and nervous.

Ruth brings her fingers to her lip, checks for blood. She’s looking straight at Debbie, still high from winning a match, watching Zoya from the outside and then pining Debbie to the floor, from making a move that lead to victory. Even scripted, even rehearsed.

Debbie frowns, little creases between her eyes. She hates that. Ruth can’t tear her eyes away. For now, it’s like, suspended. No outcome yet.

Debbie laughed but— The punchline never comes. So, maybe, this isn’t a joke. Ruth can count the seconds where Debbie doesn’t react. Which, yes, it’s still a matter of seconds, but: whatever’s happening is not immediately bad.

Debbie keeps frowning as she shakes her head, dismissive. Ruth’s still holding her hands. Her fingers are light and gentle as she takes hold of Debbie’s wrist, placing her thumbs over her pulse points.

There is no way to tell. You could take the rise and fall of Debbie’s chest, her wide-eyed, still a bit startled expression, the fast pulse beating underneath Ruth’s fingertips, you could take all of that and make it into anything. And Ruth, even Vegas Ruth, has done enough daring for one day.

She wiggles one hand free and runs her fingers up Debbie’s arm, as close to conciliatory as she dares. “Sorry,” she offers, easy and soft. And it is, easy. For everything that has been building between them, this is still very familiar. The shape of excuses, ready in her mouth. The desire to please. The part of her that swells up at every mistake and grows numb with too many opportunities.

Debbie looks down at her. It’s enough to set Ruth’s skin on fire. The hands that go and grab her hips burn her down to the bone. She feels caught.

Debbie’s mouth’s mean and hungry, like the rest of her. Ruth answers in kind.

Debbie’s hunger comes from a place Ruth has learned to recognize. She thinks, to be this hungry for more, you’d have to have something first, and then some to spare. Ruth’s never been hungry like that. With every touch, Debbie’s figuring out how much is enough.

Which of course it never is. Not when you take any victory and claim it for a failure. Nine months in Vegas is just losing to Bash. Having Randy here would be accepting defeat. Kissing Ruth must be a tragedy in and of itself.

Ruth doesn’t get the time to figure out how much she wants to give. She settles for thinking _Debbie,_ syllables smothered together in a loop. _Debbie,_ like there’s something she wouldn’t give if asked. Like Debbie hasn’t taken up so much already.

Debbie’s hands circle around her waist. Ruth wants to know how much of it is real. How much of it is hurt over Bash and Randy and Mark and Sam and Russell, all these men ordering every fucking thing into existence. Except maybe this, right now. How much is play-acting, just another match, another challenge. It’s not like the person playing Liberty Belle every night, the American dream, this goddamn national treasure, can back away from a fight.

Debbie’s eyes dart to the couch. She drags them to it, takes a seat next to Ruth’s bag and waits. It’s an invitation. It’s also an out. Both in equal measure, Debbie’ll take an out from her too. Right now, for the first fucking time outside of the ring, she’ll take everything Ruth’ll give.

Ruth falls in her lap, quick and surprisingly graceful. Her body doesn’t betray how desperate she really feels, how vulnerable she’s being.

She finds herself unrelenting. Her hands, allowed to touch, explore the expanse of skin, the muscle rippling underneath. Debbie’s forearms, her shoulders, her thighs.

She finds Debbie wet. Her hand inside Debbie’s pants, at the absolute worst angle, and yet Debbie grunts, a guttural, ugly sound she’d never let herself make on stage. Ruth grins wide, unchecked, she can’t help it. Debbie retaliates in the most wonderful manner: her own hands slipping into Ruth’s pants, pushing the zipper down, pressing a single finger against her underwear. Ruth stills. Her breath, hell, her whole body seizes up, the only thing she feels is where Debbie’s touching her.

She doesn’t know how she doesn’t fall over, that surprising grace of hers or the GLOW training, or maybe it’s Debbie steady hand on the low of her back, keeping her in place.

Debbie lifts her hips and Ruth helps to pull her clothes down an inch. She changes the angle slightly, rubbing at Debbie, keeping up the pace. Her hands are sure and rough.

Debbie’s fingers curl inside of her, her nails biting into Ruth from inside. Now this, to Ruth, feels like enough. She comes with a loud, embarrassing gasp.

She can see Debbie, before her, hard eyes, fast breaths, the red on her cheeks. She can see—

The airport is loud, crowded, big and suddenly empty near the gate, as Ruth sprints toward it, fumbling for her ticket.  
Debbie’s chasing after her, but she doesn’t know it yet.

“Don’t go,” she’d shout, out of breath, catching up. Debbie’ll smile, a creature made of palpable, bubbling joy. “Make a move,” she’ll say. She’ll almost beg. 

And that new Los Angeles Ruth’ll kiss her, oblivious, exhausted. Happy.

And she’ll stay. Ruth can almost see the tall building, the twentieth floor. Long hallways, an array of assistants, the flashy colors of the new costumes. The heads of departments and Debbie there, ruling over her newly founded kingdom. She can see the late nights and the morning coffee, brainstorm sessions and budget cuts. She can feel her own joy at directing.

Screw the long way around. She’ll be great, she’ll learn all about the angles. 

Screw Sam and his tortured genius. She’ll get it right from the first. She’ll figure out how. How to make it clear, how to make it more, how to show it for what it is. How to frame both Debbie’s smile and the edge of her teeth, the lean composure, the muscle and the resentment. Ruth’ll kiss it off her every day for as long as it’ll hold.

Ruth thinks maybe she could be sold on that. But then Debbie grunts under her. She bites into Ruth’s shoulder, and the sudden surge of pain brings her back.

She listens to Debbie’s quick breaths. Her skin is still scorching hot under Ruth’s palms.

_I want you,_ and Ruth would like for the words to be anything else. But they play on a loop in her head. _I want you I want you I love you._ She says nothing.

She watches Debbie’s sadness wash over her, her eyes suddenly empty.

_I love you but I also know you._ Debbie pushes her off her lap. 

Their next show has everyone back in their place. 

The lines of Debbie’s face are smoothed out by the projectors. She looks younger. In the harsh light, she always looks like that: whole. No one could ever take away at her.

Zoya still tries. She leaves real bruises under the red white and blue.


End file.
